


Like Father, Like Son (3)

by iamisaac



Series: Lacking Humanity/Like Father, Like Son/Humanity's Son [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 04:25:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5234024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamisaac/pseuds/iamisaac





	Like Father, Like Son (3)

Harry tried to tell himself, a few weeks later, that he had become accustomed to his new situation. It wasn’t just the sexual element, but the expected subservience: the bitter knowledge that his life belonged to Draco Malfoy, and that this was all he could expect for the whole of his future – however long that might be. The biggest moment of pure fear had come when Draco penetrated him for the first time. Sirius had become the first in a series of fantasy lovers that Harry had made up, these inventions protecting him from the humiliation of Draco finding out that he was a virgin. It had not been until too late that he’d wondered whether Draco wouldn’t find out the first time he fucked him.

He had been gentle, Draco. Had started with lubricated fingers, and gone slowly until Harry found himself moaning with enjoyment. It was at the next stage that the enjoyment had gone, and fear had replaced it; a fear that Draco had accurately diagnosed.

“Scared, Potter? I thought you were used to this,” he taunted.

Harry clenched his fists into the carpet.

“Not,” he panted, “with you. Generally with people I actually like. It makes a difference, you know.”

“Poor baby,” mocked Draco. “Don’t tense up, you’ll make it worse.”

Harry hadn’t seen how he would ever fit Draco inside him, and as Draco entered him he was aware of a hot, burning pain that brought the sweat out on his face and back. Eyes closed, he tried to relax, and suddenly – almost shamefully – he was aware of a faint twitch of pleasure. Draco made no effort to force the pace, but stroked him gently as he moved, until it was Harry who wanted more, who was pushing demandingly against his new lover. The pain was still there, but the gratification was getting stronger all the time, and Harry wasn’t sure whether it hurt more than it satisfied or whether the heat of desire over-ruled all other feelings. Afterwards, when they had both come, the pain resurfaced, and he tried to ignore it as he lay by Draco’s side. For a while there was silence, then Draco spoke.

“You were tight, Potter. Tight as a virgin.” There was a malicious accusation in the tone, and Harry hoped his wince wasn’t visible as Draco leant on one elbow and looked at him.

“Yeah, well,” he said, improvising wildly. “There are… spells, you know.” Shit, he’ll expect me to know them he thought in agitation, wishing he had never started these fantasies but refusing to admit they were lies now. “My… er… last lover knew them.”

Draco’s face looked frozen. He stood up slowly, suspicious eyes fixed on Harry.

“And who was he?”

Harry couldn’t meet his eyes, and looked away, biting his lip.

“None of your damn business, Malfoy.”

“You can’t think of a name, can you, Potter?”

Harry’s heart sank. Draco must have realised, then, that he was faking it; that it had all be a fragile fantasy that was now crumbling around him. But strangely, Draco looked less triumphant now; instead, paler even than usual, he looked slightly sick. He walked towards the door of the bathroom.

“There’s only one place that you’ll get spells like that, Potter, and you know it.” His eyes were hard. “The only question is whether you were a customer or a whore at whatever brothel you’ve been frequenting. I might have said that you were a whore, but even I didn’t think you’d sunk that low.”

He opened the door and walked through it, but before it closed, he turned back with a final thought.

“Oh, and save the frightened look, Potter. It might turn on some of your other lovers, but it does nothing for me.”

The door closed, with a bang, behind him.

Since then, there had been other moments. It was clear that Draco was jealous, and Harry fed off it as his only method of reprisal for the situation he found himself in. He had already claimed as lovers Neville, Seamus and Zacharias Smith, as well as three members of the Weasley family (though not, in fact, Ron: given his obvious and comfortable relationship with Hermione all through most of the Sixth and Seventh year of Hogwarts, Harry hadn’t thought that Draco would swallow that one); and was considering his next choice. Sometimes he wondered whether he was taking things too far, but the humiliation of being Draco’s slave – for, however he tried to ignore the fact, that was what it basically came down to – meant that he couldn’t stop himself. And often, Draco played into his hands, both wanting and not wanting to know about his sexual history, sometimes unable to prevent himself from asking about it. Given the opportunity, Harry couldn’t resist.

“What about the werewolf?” demanded Draco. 

“If you mean Remus, say so. What about him?” asked Harry, studiedly unconcerned. Draco had once more not been able to hide the note of jealousy in his voice, and Harry took a private pleasure in listening to it. It felt like Draco held all the cards in the pack generally: when Harry was given the opportunity to gain some credit, he couldn’t help but take it.

“Oh, come off it, Potter. I remember when he was teaching at Hogwarts – everyone saw the way he looked at you. Those private lessons you had – were you at it then?” 

Harry smiled.

“Oh no, not then…”

“Later, then?” Draco was looking at him hard.

“Later… Well, that’s a different matter, isn’t it?” said Harry idly, apparently not looking at Draco.

“You were, then?”

“Oh yes.” Harry spoke softly, with a half-smile, as if of reminiscence, on his lips. Draco was silent, as if waiting for more, and Harry looked up at him for the first time. “You surely don’t expect me to boast of my conquests, Malfoy? Suffice to say I wasn’t disappointed. He’s been pretty much the one and only ever since we first started. Good, you say? Oh no, better than that.”

Draco left, abruptly, and Harry counted it another victory. It was several days before he realised that the challenge might have been better left unsaid.

***

Time passed, but the situation didn't change. Days later, Harry found himself in the same position - under Draco Malfoy.

“You know, Malfoy, you can’t do anything to me that half of Gryffindor hasn’t done before you.” Harry’s voice was cool, though his body wasn’t. He found it hard to forgive Draco for making him want him so desperately, his only revenge the web of lies he had built around himself.

Draco’s grey eyes flicked to Harry’s, and without warning he thrust into him, harder than usual, so that Harry cried out. But Draco had withdrawn a little and was teasing him gently, so that the pain was lost beneath the heat and pleasure and Harry was crying out differently now. Just the touch of him could bring Harry to the point of ecstasy; and when they reached their completion, Harry had an urge to draw Draco down to him, arms tightly wrapped around him. Draco’s breathing was harsh and fast, and Harry lay back, eyes closed and body aching with satisfaction until Draco’s voice cut across his contentment, as harsh as his breathing had been.

“I might not be your first, Potter, but it’s me you’re desperate for.”

Harry blinked his eyes open, feeling for his glasses, at once tense again.

“In your dreams,” he spat back.

Draco smiled, lazily.

“Oh no, closer than that. Out of your very mouth. Want to hear?”

“Not really.” Harry hoped the lump in his throat wasn’t obvious. Oh God, what now?

Draco reached for his wand once more, his eyes fixed maliciously on Harry’s. A muttered word, and Harry heard his own voice again, hard and cold.

“ You know, Malfoy, you can’t do anything to me that half of Gryffindor hasn’t done before you.”

Silence for a second or two. Then a whimper of pain – him again. Some faltering, unsteady breathing – was it his or Draco’s? - then a voice that sounded both familiar and unfamiliar at once: his own voice, but surely not his words, surely not his tone…

“Oh yes… Draco…Fuck… God yes, please… please Draco, please… Oh… Oh… Oh God yes… fuck me…Draco – Draco please, love…”

Harry turned away so that his face was hidden, smothered in the carpet. It was false. Draco had surely fixed the wand to invent such words. He wanted to put his hands over his ears, to stop the flow of words from reaching him. It couldn’t be true. He wouldn’t say such things, surely? Surely he had more pride than that, at least? 

“No.” It was a whispered word, but Draco caught it, and laughed.

“Oh yes, Potter. Very much yes. And you know it.”

It was true. He wanted to deny it – wanted it so very much – but Harry knew with a horrific certainty that the voice was his own; that he had said such appalling, shaming things as Draco fucked him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t bear look up and meet Draco’s mocking gaze. There was a sound, as if Draco was settling himself more comfortably, and then Draco spoke again, apparently at random.

“He’s still alive, you know.”

Harry’s mind was blank, still filled with the sound of his own voice.

“Who?” he asked, his voice muffled by the thick carpet.

“Lupin. Your werewolf lover.”

“You’re lying.” Hadn’t Draco punished him enough, thought Harry bitterly, without this attempt to rub salt into the wound?

“Oh?”

“I saw him die.” 

Harry had seen too many people die, each death imprinted on his brain as if it were burnt there. It had been during his fight with Voldemort, when each of them had paused for a moment, surveying the battle scene below them. He had seen Remus, fallen to the ground, a Death Eater standing over him, wand raised. Had watched as the Death Eater lowered the wand and kicked him viciously as he lay, not once but several times, before carrying off the corpse as some obscene trophy. He relived it all, nausea rising in his throat, and suddenly a more recent memory came to him, of Lucius Malfoy kicking out at him as he knelt in front of him.

“Your father…” he muttered brokenly. “Your father killed him.”

“Look at me, Potter,” ordered Draco.

Harry ignored him, and Draco knelt down and forced him to turn over, to meet his eyes. There was a sneering smile on his lips.

“No, Potter,” he said softly. “My father saved his life.”

“Why would he do that?”

The smile grew, and the sneer with it.

“Perhaps he took pity on him. Feeling guilty, Potter? How many times have you betrayed him since you’ve been with me? Do you even want to see him now?”

“Oh God, yes.” It was an immediate, unthinking sincerity. The thought of seeing a friendly face went straight to Harry’s heart: he had not let himself think of everyone he had lost lest it broke his spirit entirely. The idea that even one of his friends might still live, might be within his reach, was both agony and bliss. “You’re not lying?”

The smile was dropped; the sneer remained.

“No. He’s alive.”


End file.
